


Dream of A Turning Wheel

by SierraBlanca



Series: The Lone Knight and the Sleeping Beast [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sleeping Beauty Fusion, Anal Sex, Curse Breaking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Interspecies Sex, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Kings & Queens, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Political Alliances, Power Imbalance, Sexual Slavery, Spanking, Spells & Enchantments, The Nine Realms, Ásgarðr | Asgard (realm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 17:12:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8809198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SierraBlanca/pseuds/SierraBlanca
Summary: “What is it?” Loki asked, with great interest. He was looking down at a small machine, made entirely by oak wood except for tiny, hidden places that had been lined by iron. A ball of wood rested over its base, and strapped around the turning wheel he could see the thin threads of white going round and round in an endless circle.“Come see for yourself.” Said the old woman, who had the most remarkable voice, for it was young and strong, unlike her wrinkled visage. He touched the strange machine with a long finger, and immediately felt a vicious prick that made him retrieve his hand. He stared at the injured digit and saw a tiny drop of blood flow out if it.





	

As the night passed by, Loki was seized by a strange sensation.

It was late in the evening, and the courtesans’ initiation ceremony had ended recently. They were now disperse across the room, drinking wine from gold lined goblets and cuddling close to the chimney, or immersed in light lectures while seating before the windows. Others were sewing across the room, conversing in hushed voices as they laughed at each other’s jests.  Loki was being unbound, and he didn’t know what would happen to him once he was free. Would he be sent away to some other room with all these courtesans? Or would Lord Stark take him away to rest in more private chambers? Perhaps they were all to stay together, sharing the large royal bed that occupied the center of the room. Loki found that none of these actions was particularly enticing nor dreadful to him. It seemed that, all of a sudden, he didn’t care about his own fate. He just wanted to let go of himself, and let whatever had to happen, just happen.

Lord Stark had stood up from his place on the bed and was now looking at his way; piercing him with his dark brown eyes. He was standing over the wooden floor, Joan having retired the last of his restrains, and he felt strangely stiff. He began to stretch his legs, trying to get rid of the numbing sensation that had taken a hold of his muscles, but had to stop when he saw Lord Stark approaching him; his mouth full of new orders and commands. Giving him no time to nurse his aching limbs, he ordered him down on his knees and told him to crawl towards the foot of the bed. He was holding a large leather whip in his right hand.

When Loki hesitated, his command came very sharp again, and the tip of the whip clashed against the wooden floor; producing a terrible sound. He did not strike him, thought, and for that the Jotnar was grateful. He moved slowly, hesitantly across the room; all too conscious of the courtesans’ eyes following his every move. After a few seconds, he made it to the foot of the bed. The fire was already a great blaze on the hearth and the windows were curtained. The whole room felt hot, and Loki was quivering with both fear and excitement. Between his legs there was still a painful need that had not been appeased.

Lord Stark sat on the edge of the bed, right in front of him, and patted his head; as one does with a dog that has behaved correctly. Loki lowered his eyes obediently, glad that, now that the ribbons and trinkets had been removed, his hair partly concealed him. “You must forgive me for being so strict.” The man said, passing a hand through the long, black locks; as if to comb them. “I think you realize that firmness in the beginning is a mercy to a slave; especially when they come from such high cribs.” He passed a thumb over his lips as he said that; as if delighted by the softness of them. His words, for some reason, made the Jotnar tremble. He’d never thought of himself in such terms before, and now that he heard them out loud he found them frightening. It made him realize what he truly was, now; understand how high he had been stood before, and how low he had fallen.

For a while, nothing happened. The Lord was sitting quietly over the bed, caressing his hair and neck; as if trying to coddle him. The light of the flames shone all about him, illuminating some of his features and darkening others. Despite the quietness, Loki was in a great state of agitation. He knew that his face had flushed, as always, and that his back was trembling slightly; a sense of trepidation had him convinced that he was about to be struck. Without thinking, he lowered his head even further, until it was almost touching the ground, and pressed his lips to the Lord’s black riding boots. He didn’t know what had prompted him to do it. Perhaps he was trying to win his sympathy; let him see that he could be good, and that there was no need for more punishments. He seemed to welcome the action, for he raised his boot slightly to get it closer to his lips. Loki kissed it over and over again, leaving a thin trail of saliva across the hard material.

“Put your hands over my knees.” Lord Stark spoke, his voice sounding softer than ever before. Hesitantly, the Jotnar complied. He felt him putting a hand over his shoulder, as if looking for support, as the other slowly trailed down his back; feeling the strained muscles. It stopped over one of his buttocks to squeeze it; letting the tender flesh yield under his fingers. He didn’t seem to realize that the new position put all his weight over Loki’s back, making it difficult for him to breathe, but the Jotnar was all too scared of him to complain, and remained silent about it.

He spanked both of his buttocks with one hand, making the flesh sway; but there was not much feeling in the action. Instead of crying out Loki moaned, struggling not to lift his hands from the Lord’s knees to caress his own cock. “Come up here.” The man said, seating upright on the bed and quickly patting his lap. Loki obeyed without giving it much thought; placing himself over his knees as he had seen cabaret girls do before, during the autumn feasts in the Winter Palace. A few spanks were delivered, this time harder and faster than before, but the Jotnar tolerated them with strange calmness.

After approximately ten blows, a rough hand passed over the dark, battered skin, massaging it slowly. Then it went lower, stroking his thighs; moving maddeningly close to his throbbing member. “To whom do you belong, Loki?” Lord Stark asked, in a low, almost enticing voice. The Jotnar licked his lips nervously, feeling his heart pounding heavily against his chest. His breathing was irregular, and he had to wonder why, for he hadn’t done anything tiring or distressing enough to be feeling like this.

“To you, Lord Stark.” He said, short-winded, gripping tightly the red duvet covers under his arms. A few more spanks came after that. The blows were fast and precise, alternatively switching between both of his buttocks until the flesh turned from blue to purple and from normal to swollen. It was a stinging pain the one he was feeling, but Loki refused to cry out. Soon, the lambaste was interrupted, and Lord Stark was being affectionate again. He passed his fingers over the abused flesh, slowly feeling it pulse. Then he bended over the Jotnar’s body, and placed a short, sweet kiss over the back of his shoulder.

He was allowed to stand after that. He got on his feet gracefully, and stood facing his Lord as he sat inspecting him. He didn’t dare to look at his face, so he lowered his eyes and stared down at his riding boots. He heard more than saw Lord Stark drawing back his cloak, discarding it somewhere at his right. “Look at me, Loki.” He commanded, and the Jotnar hurried to comply. He was looking up at him, something strange shinning in his dark brown eyes. His right hand was gesturing towards the golden buckle of his belt.

“Unfasten this.” He said, and quickly Loki went down on his knees to do the requited job. He pulled on the leather, his breath soft and fast, and then pulled the strap back so that the belt came loose. He retired it slowly, and put it aside without having to be told. Suddenly, something cold and thick brushed against his left shoulder, and as he turned his head around he realized that Lord Stark was still holding the large, black whip of before; threateningly passing it over his skin. He quivered slightly, and turned to look at him with an inquiry in his eyes. What had he done, now?

“I had thought about using this with you, tonight.” The Lord confessed, lifting the leather tool to Loki’s face, so he could slowly brush the tip of it against his lips. “But now you are being so lovely and I can’t bring myself to do it.” He said, pressing the whip harder against his mouth. Loki understood his invitation, and slowly stuck out his tongue to lick to hard material. At the sight, Lord Stark let out a rather improper grunt. “You don’t deserve any punishment, do you, love? You are a good pet. You’re such a very good pet…” He trailed off, seeing how, rather shyly, Loki passed his long red tongue all along the whip.

It was startling how he suddenly threw himself on the Jotnar, roughly grabbing him by the shoulders and flinging him down on the bed. Loki fell back on the satin cushions, and immediately felt a roughness beneath his swollen skin. The flesh was still sensitive, and the touch of the covers stung. His eyes were open wide, staring up at the young lord as he swung himself over him. His heart was pounding hard and heavy against his chest, and his breathing was almost painfully hard. He was caught somewhere between fear and excitement; he knew he was in for a wild ride, and he also knew it was going to hurt terribly in the morning, but somehow, he didn’t care. His desire was too much (the need between his legs too painful) and for the first time since his enslavement had begun he felt that he wanted to be taken.

As he opened his legs he didn’t felt the throbbing pain that had assaulted him the prior nights, but a flood of juices coming down his cock and a spark of pleasure travelling his back. A moan came out of his mouth as a hardness entered him. Unconsciously, he lifted his hips, and as he realized what he was doing he hoped Lord Stark wouldn’t be displeased with it. A firm, unyielding thing was driving inside him, molding his sore and quivering orifice at will. It was all hot and wet and wickedly _marvelous,_ and as Lord Stark forced it deeper inside him it seemed to rub some mysterious core in him; making him give great guttural moans in spite of himself.

The man’s thrusts become faster and faster, and then he too gave a low cry; muffling the sound against Loki’s throat. He held him closer to him, his breath ragged and his chest pressed against his. A wave of something unknown was washing through the Jotnar, making him tremble in sweet spasms. The limb inside him was slowly softening. He noticed that his thighs were stick and wet; soaked in his own orgasm. Lord Stark moved over him, pressing a soft kiss against his neck. Then he let out a deep breath, and placed his head against his shoulder.

“Loki, Loki, Loki…” He whispered, sounding suddenly far, far away. “You’ve been mine for less than a week and you already make me feel such strange things… I fear what would become of me, if I’m not more careful around you.” His hand was caressing the Jotnar’s chest, silently prodding the hair around one of his nipples. He sounded drowsy. The statement had made Loki shift nervously beneath him, but he didn’t seem to have noticed.

For a moment, the Jotnar wondered if he meant to sleep like this. His weight over him made it difficult for him to breathe, and now that the moment was over, this closeness to the Lord provoked him more fear than pleasure. Still, he didn’t complain. He knew it was not his place to do so.

The courtesans had put out the candles, and now the whole room was dark. Loki had been so engaged in the act that he hadn’t noticed. For the silence in the chamber he guessed they were already sleeping, finding comfortable spots over the cushions gathered around. He wondered for a moment how they could fall asleep at the sounds of a sexual act, but quickly realized they must be used to the experience. Lord Stark was pulling at the duvet covers of the bed, trying to wrap them around both of their bodies. Once he was covered it took him around five minutes to fall asleep. His closeness was frightening, somehow, but Loki was tired and his orgasm had left him feeling lethargic. The skin against his was warm and soft, and he found himself putting his arms around the hard chest; looking for heat.

It didn’t took him long to fall asleep either.

 

* * *

 

Loki dreamed a dream of wistfulness. He roamed the castle in which he had lived all his life, now and then pausing before the large windows to watch the tiny figures of the peasants in the fields below, gathering the fresh mown grass into haystacks. He wore an armor again and he breathed the clean, unsoiled air that it's only known by free men. The sky was cloudless and he enjoyed the sight of it; its vastness and its snowy clarity. Then, suddenly, as he was walking down the hall that lead to his chambers, there came to his ears a sound he could not identify.

He followed the noise, and through a doorway saw an old woman, bent and ugly, plying a strange contraption. It was a great turning wheel with a thread that was winding itself upon a spindle. He had never seen an instrument like this one before, and since Loki was curious by nature, he drew near to see it better. From the open window came the sweet smell of winter; the snowflakes having accumulated over the window frames. The sky was dark now, and beyond there could be seen glittering stars.

“What is it?” He asked, with great interest. It was a small machine, made entirely by oak wood except for tiny, hidden places that had been lined by iron. A ball of wood rested over its base, and strapped around the turning wheel he could see the thin threads of white going round and round in an endless circle.

“Come see for yourself.” Said the old woman, who had the most remarkable voice, for it was young and strong, unlike her wrinkled visage. He touched the strange machine with a long finger, and immediately felt a vicious prick that made him retrieve his hand. He stared at the injured digit and saw a tiny drop of blood flow out if it.

Then he woke up. He was not in his castle. He was laying on the bed of Lord Anthony Stark, hidden beneath red duvet covers and satin cushions. It was morning already, but the room was still full of the leaping fires of the chimney. The air around him felt hot and dry, and just breathing it made him cringe in distaste. He despised all this heat. He stood upright on the bed, taking the covers off of himself. He noticed, rather displeased, that he had been sweating the whole night. His body was all covered in a thin layer of perspiration.

The room was empty. The courtesans had retired, it seemed, for their tasks of the day; leaving Loki alone in the vastness of the chamber. He sat on the edge of the bed, so eager was he to lose the weight and texture of his dream, and suddenly he remembered that when he had went to sleep the night before Lord Stark had been with him; silently dozing out above him. The memory brought certain flush to his face. He felt angry at himself for giving in to pleasure in the way he had.

Lord Stark had enslaved him. He had taken him away from everything he knew and loved without a second thought, only to bring him to this terrible Realm, to be used and mistreated as he saw fit. How had he given him the satisfaction of going to bed with him, willingly? It was one thing to surrender himself in anger, refusing to enjoy any of his fondling, any of his wicked torments; but reveling in the assault was something entirely different. If he wished to maintain the little dignity he had left, he couldn’t let happen again.

A rustling of clothes made Loki realize that he was not alone. Lord Stark was there, by the fire, one hand over the stone above the chimney and the other dangling above the flames. He wore a brilliant velvet cloak and high leather boots. His eyes looked pensive and his face was sharpened with brooding. Just the sight of him made Loki anxious. He must have made some type of sound, for suddenly the Lord seemed to wake up from his musings. He turned his head around to look at him; not moving from his place by the fire. The Jotnar could not see his expression in the darkness.

“You should get dressed.” He said, turning to look at the chimney again. “There are clothes in the cabinets at your left.”

Loki turned to look at the wardrobe. It was long and wide; large enough, it seemed, to store the clothes of almost twenty courtesans. It covered almost the entire lateral wall of the chamber, leaving space only for a picture of the Asgardian fields and a few small windows. The Jotnar got closer to it and opened one of the first drawers. There were women’s clothes inside; long gowns and evening dresses, as well as a summer coats. He found similar things on the second drawer, and in the third one there were only jewels and hair accessories. Loki wondered, sullenly, if this was what he was supposed to wear.

“At your left, Loki.” The Lord repeated, sounding impatient. He wouldn’t even deign him with a look, and that only enraged the Jotnar even more. He opened one of the left drawers (the ones that were closer to the windows) and found thin leather garments inside. They were black and sleeveless, with an open neck that could be laced with tiny gold buttons. Beneath them there was a grey long shirt, dark gloves and a belt made of calfskin. Caught short, Loki pulled them out and laid them on the bed. He wanted to ask Lord Stark if they were really for him, but refused to speak to him out of spite.

He put the clothes on quickly. He still wasn’t used to the Citadel’s hot climate, and wearing leather only made him feel all the more suffocated, but he decided to endure the nuisance. Being a Jotnar, facing high temperatures was a challenge for him and could end in severe sunburns, but he much preferred taking that risk over using silk clothes again. He left some of the gold buttons undone and left the leather gloves on the nightstand beside the bed; for wearing them inside seemed unnecessary. When he was done Lord Stark stood up from his place by the fire and approached him. He looked at him up and down, as one does when inspecting a new set of clothing. He motioned for him to lift his forearms, so that the lower garments were more visible, and then silently circled him. Loki tried not to flinch under the scrutiny.

Lord Stark nodded approvingly, then; passing his hands over the leather to smooth down the wrinkles. He turned around to fetch something else from the wardrobe and came back holding two long bearskin boots. He told Loki to sit on the bed and then knelt before it, efficiently putting the footwear on. As he began to tie the straps around his feet, the Jotnar wondered why he was suddenly been treated with so much care. It was the first time in a few days that he was allowed to use men’s clothing, and he held in doubt why the Lord was giving him that liberty. It could easily be just another one of his games; or perhaps the sight of him wrapped in silk robes appealed to him no more. He had no way to know.

Once the laces were tied Lord Stark stood up from the floor and instructed him to go to the washroom to tidy himself up. Inside, Loki found many brushes, and took one to comb his dark entangled hair. He washed his face, neck and forearms, trying to get rid of the heat, and rinsed his mouth with a mint potion that found beneath the mirror. When he came out, Lord Stark approached him and offered him his arm. The Jotnar took it silently; not bothering to ask where he was taking him.

He led him out of the room and into the hallway, without exchanging a single word with him. His lips were tightly shut, and his eyebrows were down in a serious frown. He hadn’t been this silent during their travel. He had been eager to get conversations out of him, despite Loki’s constant rejections, and more than once had made questions regarding him and his homeland. The Jotnar hadn’t answered any of them, fearing that the information might be used against him in the future, and too resentful to speak to the Lord without varnishing his language with blasphemies. Now, he found that silence was worse than inquiring. At least if the man spoke, he would be able to tell whether he was angry or not.

They walked through the hallway and down a staircase that lead them to the Great Hall. It was empty now, the King’s guests having parted long after sundown, but here and there Loki could still catch traces of the previous day's festivities. The tiles of the floor were covered with indistinct grey tread marks going from the entrance doors to the ball room; the carpets laid in a disarray around the long banquet tables, and one or another forgotten coat surrounded the oak wood chairs; as if protecting them from the cold. Through all this he and Lord Stark walked, until finally, they reached two heavy looking glass doors by the end of the Hall. The Lord opened them with little effort, and in no time they found themselves out in the open; standing over a roofless balcony.

The smell of fresh cut grass flooded Loki's nose, as well as a slight essence of daisies that came, most probably, of the bushes grown along the railings. The sun was high and up in the sky, and there were little to no clouds. In the center of the balcony there was a small table surrounded by three chairs, and a young lady seating before it. She was tiny and slight, and had a long crimson hair that fell over her shoulders in curly waves. The robe she wore was a green velvet that matched the color of her eyes, and her long, delicate hands were adorned by silver rings. Loki could tell, by the severity of her gaze and the pulchritude of her attire, that she was part of the nobility.

Lord Stark greeted her with a reverence, and he hurried to do the same. Her name was Natasha Brewer, and she was the wife of an Asgardian high lord. She and Lord Stark had known each other for a while; or so it seemed, by the familiarity with which they spoke to one another. It was quite obvious, however, that he was not one of her favorite persons. When he approached the table, she didn’t offered him a seat, but rather leaned back against hers to display an insidious smile; as if trying to taunt him. As they spoke she left him standing before the table; seeming amused by his refusal of taking a chair without being invited first.

Lord Stark was angry, and tired of her poor courtesies he took the seat without asking; prompting Loki to do the same. They began a long debate concerning politics, not minding his presence, and since none of them bothered in dismissing him or sending him to do some other task, the young prince was forced to stand the shouting and teasing that their difference of opinion provoked. He heard something about a conflict with Vanaheim, and the aggressive policies of the King being problematic; they also spoke about armament, food supplies and diplomatic relations; all the while taunting each other’s mental capabilities. It became tedious after a while, but he made sure to pay attention to everything they said; hoping that eventually the information would be useful for him.

As breakfast was been brought in by the servants, Lord Stark passed a hand behind Loki’s back; encircling his waist. The touch made him wary, at the beginning. They were out in the open, and in the company of an important Lady, but Loki knew his new Lord to be eccentric when it came to sexual desire, and wasn’t sure how far he would go in order to satisfy it. The mere idea of enduring yet another public humiliation made him physically ill. Lord Stark didn’t try anything, thought, for he seemed only interested in touching. In playing with his hair and passing his fingers over his side, stopping once in a while to kiss his ears and neck. Loki could tolerate that, even though it made him uncomfortable.

The food that had been served to them was strange but alluring. Whole grains, flakes and a variety of dried fruits drown in cow's milk; omelets covered in cream and jam, and slices of salmon, cheese and hot sausage. Loki wasn’t used to so much abundance, for he had grown up in a Realm where animals were thin, land was poorly fertile, and even noblemen had to settle sometimes with austere meals. He ate slowly, feeling full after only a few bites, and ended up finishing only half of the plate. By then, both the Lord and the Lady were done eating, and the servants came back to retire the left overs. They were replace with a teapot and three small mugs.

The drinks were served, and rather startled Loki saw how Lord Stark took a canteen out of his clothes to fill his mug with the liquor inside. Lady Brewer laughed at the sight, but said nothing about it. As he meet no resistance, the Lord repeated the process with Loki’s mug and handed it over to him. “Drink.” He commanded, as roughly as he would do it when telling him to stay still or be silent. The Jotnar looked at him with confusion, not daring to pick up the drink. “It’s not even midday.” He responded, seeing the man happily taking a sip of his steaming cup of tea. He repeated his command, surrounding his shoulders with a strong, muscled arm, and reassumed his conversation with Lady Brewer.

Not understanding why this was required of him, but knowing all too well that refusing something to his Lord could end badly, Loki drank the tea. As he did it, a rough, firm hand come to rest over his left arm, a little above the elbow, and slowly began to draw concentric circles on his skin. The fondling was somehow relaxing. The tranquilizing powers of the tea, the unknown but acrid booze and Lord Stark's disinterested coddling had a numbing effect on him. Soon he found himself tilting his head to the side and resting it over the man’s shoulder, much as he had done it the day before, while they were riding towards the Citadel.

Everything was strangely calm, and Loki found that he enjoyed the feeling of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I managed to write a chapter with a somehow happy ending. It was about time :s I changed Natasha's last name from Romanov to Brewer because that way it sounded more medieval. Even thought the world(s) the story is settled in obviously come from nordic mythology, I wanted to give this a feeling similar to the era of the Crusades in England and a russian name doesn't work very well with that. Anyway, hope you liked the chapter, and if you do, please leave feedback :)


End file.
